THE FORAY OF QUEEN MEAVE

OR

‘THE TAIN BO CUAILGNÉ’

FIVE FRAGMENTS OF AN ANCIENT IRISH EPIC

116TO

SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON

THIS POEM IS DEDICATED,

IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE

FOR ‘CONGAL,’ AND FOR MANY POEMS BESIDE,

THAT ILLUSTRATE ARIGHT

THE LEGENDS OF ANCIENT IRELAND.

117

PROLOGUE.

Senchan, the king of bards, when centuries six

Had flowered and faded since the Birth Divine,

Summoned in synod all the island bards,

Demanding; ‘Is there who can yet recite

That first of Erin’s songs, “The Tain”?’ Not one

Could sing it, save in fragments. Then arose

Marbhan, and spake; ‘Send prayer to Erin’s Saints

That, bowed o’er Fergus’ grave, they lift their hands

For Erin at her need.’ Five Saints obeyed

And o’er that venerable spot three days

Fasting made prayer while knelt the bards around.

Then on the third day as the sun uprose

Behold! a purple mist engirt that grave;

And from it, fair as rainbow backed by cloud,

Shone out a kingly Phantom robed in green,

With red-brown locks, close clustered, drenched in dew,

And golden crown, and golden-hilted sword;—

His hand was on it. They who saw that Shape

Well knew him, Fergus Roy, the Exile-King.

118Gracious as in the old days, that king rehearsed

The Tale so long desired, though many an age,

And that grey empire of departed Souls,

Had quelled at last the strong ones of that strain,

Record half jest, half earnest. Marbhan spoke

Once more; ‘Lest Erin lose again this Tale

Through fraud of demons or all-wasting time,

Amid yon Saints elect some scribe, their best,

And pray that scribe to write it.’ Straight, with help

It may be, of the bards, Saint Kiaran wrote

The Heroic Song on parchment fine, the skin

Of one he loved, his ‘little heifer grey’

That gave the book its name. Six centuries passed;

Then in Saint Kiaran’s House at Clonmacnoise

That book was found, and on it; ‘Reader, here

Are histories old with later fables blent,

Fancies full fair with idle Pagan vaunts:

Now therefore, since old things have in them worth

And teach by what they hold and what they lack

Whoso shall read this book, and know to choose

’Twixt Good and Ill, my blessing on him rest!’

119

FRAGMENT I.

THE CAUSE OF THE GREAT WAR.

Argument.

Meave, Queen of Connacht,^[24] and Ailill her husband, waking one morning fall into a disputation, each claiming to be the worthier of the two, and the wealthier. Their lords decide that the king and queen are great and happy alike in all things save one only, namely, that Ailill possesses the far-famed white Bull, Fionbannah. Meave hearing that Conor Conchobar, King of Uladh,^[25] boasts a black Bull mightier yet, is fain to purchase it, but cannot prevail so far. She therefore declares war against Uladh. There meets her Faythleen the Witch, who prophesies calamity, but promises that in aid of Meave she will breathe over the realm of Uladh a spirit of imbecility. This she does; yet Cuchullain, unaided, afflicts the whole army of Meave by exploits which to him are but sports. Fergus, the exiled King of Uladh, narrates to Meave the high deeds of Cuchullain wrought in his childhood.

In Cruachan, old Connacht’s palace pile,

Dwelt Meave, the queen, haughtiest of woman’s kind,

A warrioress untamed that made her will

The measure of the world. The all-conquering years

Conquered not her: the strength of endless prime

120Lived in her royal tread and breast and eye

A life immortal. Queenly was her brow;

Fulgent her eye; her countenance beauteous, save

When wrath o’er-flamed its beauty. With her dwelt

Ailill her husband, trivial man and quaint,

And early old. He had not chosen her:

She chose a consort who should rule her not,

And tossed him to her throne. In youth her lord

Was Conor Conchobar, great Uladh’s King:

She had not found him docile to her will,

And to her sire returned. The August morn

Had trailed already on the stony floor

Its fiery beam when, laughing, Ailill woke:

He woke, awakened by a sound that shook

The forest dews to earth, Fionbannah’s roar,

That snow-white Bull, the wonder of the age,

Who, born amid the lowlands of the queen,

Yet, grown to strength, o’er-leaped her bound and roamed

Thenceforth the leaner pastures of the king,

For this cause, that his spirit scorned to live

In female vassalage.

In female vassalage. That tale recalling

King Ailill laughed: his laughter roused the queen:

She woke in wrath: to assuage her Ailill spake;

‘Happy and blest that dame whose lord is sage!

Thy fortunes, wife of mine, began that day

121I called thee spouse!’ To him the queen, ‘My sire

Was Erin’s Ard-Righ!^[26] Daughters six had he:

I, Meave, of these was fairest and most famed!

This Cruachan was mine before we met;

And all the Island’s princes sued my hand.

I spurned their offers! three things I required—

A warrior proved, since great at arms am I;

A liberal hand, since lavish I of gifts;

A man not jealous, since, in love as war,

There where I willed I ever cast mine eyes.

These merits three were yours: I beckoned to you:

Dowered you with ingots thicker than your wrist;

Made you a king, or kingling. What of that?

I might have chosen a better! Yea, I count

My greatness more than yours!’

My greatness more than yours!’ With treble shrill

Ailill replied; ‘What words are these, my queen?

My father was a king; my brothers kings!

My hoards are higher heaped than yours; my meads

More deep, more rich!’

More deep, more rich!’ Then loudly stormed the queen:—

In rushed her lords, and stood, a senate grave,

Circling the couch: and while, each answering each,

Ailill and Meave set forth in order due

The treasures either boasted, kine, or sheep,

122Rich cornfield, jewel’d robe, or gem-wrought car,

Careful they weighed the lists in equal scale

And ’twixt them found in value difference none.

Doubtful they stood. Anon rolled forth once more

Fionbannah’s roar; and, leaping from his bed

King Ailill shouted; ‘Mine, not thine, that Bull!

Through him my treasure passes thine, my queen!

My worth exceeds thy worth!’ At once forth stepped

Mac Roth, old Connacht’s herald, with this word:

‘Great queen, the King of Uladh boasts a Bull

Lordlier than ours, a broader bulk, and black,

Black as the raven’s wing! In Daré’s charge

That marvel bides, the Donn Cuailgné named

Because his lowings shake Cuailgné’s shore,

The southern bound of Uladh. Privilege

He hath that neither witch nor demon tempt

That precinct where he harbours.’ Meave exclaimed,

‘Fly hence, Mac Roth! Take with thee golden store,

Rich garments, chariots gemmed: bid Daré choose;

But bring me back that Bull!’

But bring me back that Bull!’ Three days had passed:

Then by the tower of Daré stood Mac Roth

And blew his horn; and Daré’s sons with speed

Flung the gate wide. The herald entered in

And spake his message. Proudly Daré mused,

‘Great Meave my friendship sues;’ and made a feast,

123And, when the wine had warmed him spake; ‘Mac Roth!

Cuailgné’s Donn is Conor’s Bull, not mine:

Yet, though the king should hurl me outcast forth,

To Meave that Bull shall go and bide a year.

Tell her the Donn is manlike in his mind,

And not like Bulls. Long summer eves he stands,

Or paces stately up the mead and down

Eyeing the racing youths, or glad at heart

Listening the music.’ Thus he pledged his faith.

But Daré’s sons at midnight, each to each,

Whispered; ‘the king will chase us from the realm!

He hates Queen Meave, and well he loves the Donn;’

And stood next morn beside their sire, and spake,

‘Mac Roth is gone a hunting: ere he went

He sware that you had yielded him the Donn

Fearing his sword.’ Then Daré’s heart was changed,

And loud by all his swearing Gods he sware

‘Cuailgné’s Donn shall ne’er consort with Meave,

Nor with her kine:’ and on his gate he set

The castle’s Fool waiting Mac Roth’s return,

And charged him with this greeting; ‘Back to Meave!

Thy queen she is, not Uladh’s! Bid her know

Our Donn and we revere Fionbannah’s choice,

Her Bull, that leaped her gate and swam her flood,

Spurning the female rule!’

124Spurning the female rule!’ Then turned Mac Roth

His car; and sideway shook one hand irate;

And lashed the steeds, and reached great Cruachan,

And, instant upon all who heard his tale

Like lightning fell the battle rage. The queen,

Sent forth her heralds, east, and west, and south,

Summoning her great allies. Erin, that day

Save Uladh only, stood conjoined with Meave,

Great kings, and warriors named from chiefs of old

Sons of Milesius; for King Conor’s craft

And that proud onset of the Red-Branch Knights

Year after year had galled their hearts. ’Twas come!

The day of vengeance! In their might they rose

From Eyrus’ vales to utmost Cahirnane,

From Oileen Arda on to Borda Lu,

And where the loud wave breaks on Beara’s isle;

And by the hallowed banks of Darvra’s lake

Where, changed to swans, the Children Four of Lir,

Dowerless on earth, their home the homeless waves,

Darkling yet gladdening gloomier hearts with light,

And sad yet solaced through one conquering hope,

By song had vanquished sorrow. From the West,

Came Inachall, and Adarc. Eiderkool

Marched, ever shrilling songs and shaking spears:

And, mightier far, with never slumbering hearts

And eyes that stared through long desire of home

125Uladh’s three thousand exiles, driven far forth

When Conor Conchobar, trampling his pledge,

Slaughtered the sons of Usnach. At their head

Rode Fergus, Uladh’s King ere traitor yet

Had filched its royal crown; and by his side,

Faithful in exile, Cormac Conlinglas,

King Conor’s bravest son. That host the queen

To Ai led, where Ai’s four great plains

Shine in the rising and the setting sun,

Gold-green, with all their flag-flowers, meres, and streams:

There planted she her camp; thence ever rang

Neighing of horse, and tempest song of bard,

And graver voice of prophet and of seer

Who ceased not, day or night, for fifteen days

From warnings to the people, ‘Be ye one;’—

Yet one the people were not.

Yet one the people were not. Meave the while,

Resting upon those great and growing hosts

Her widening eyes, rejoiced within, and clutched

The sceptre-staff with closer grasp, and heaved

Higher her solid, broad, imperial breast,

Amorous of battle nigh at hand. Yet oft,

Listening those bickerings in her camp she frowned:

For still the chieftains strove; and one, a king

Briarind, had tongue so sharp, where’er he moved

126A guard was round him set lest spleen of his

Should set the monarchs ravening each on each.

‘The hand of Fergus,’ mused she, ‘that alone

Might solder yonder mass. Men note in him

His front, his voice, his stature, and his step,

The one time King of Uladh. Held he rule—

He shall not for my will endures it not!

He props my war because, long years our guest,

His honour needs not less; with us he marches

Athirst for vengeance and his native land,

Yet scoffs our cause, and sent, spurning surprise,

To Uladh challenge loud.’ Again she mused,

‘A man love-worthy if he loved again!—

At best ’twould be to him a moment’s sport!

The battle and the stag-hunt, these alone,

He counts a prince’s pastimes!’ Sudden from heaven

Eclipse there fell on Ai’s spacious plains,

And shadow black; these noting, Meave revolved

That dread Red Branch in act and counsel one;

And, brooding thus, with inner eye she saw

No longer men but skeletons of men

Innumerable in intertangled mass

Burthening the fields far spread. Aloud she cried,

‘On to Moytura where the prophet dwells;’

And straight her charioteer the horses smote

And tamed them with the reins: and lo! what time

127The noontide sun with keenest splendour blazed,

Right opposite upon the chariot’s beam

There sat a wondrous woman phantom-faced

Singing and weaving. Shapely was that head

Bent o’er her web, while back the sun-like hair

Streamed on the wind. One hand upreared a sword:

Seven chains fell from it. Sea-blue were her eyes,

And berry-red her scornful lip; her cheek

White as the snow-drift of a single night;

Her voice like harp-strings when the harper’s hand

Half drowns their pathos. Close as bark to tree

The azure robe clung to that virgin form

Sinewy and long, and reached the shining feet.

Then spake the queen; ‘What see’st thou in that web?’

And she, ‘I see a kingdom’s destinies;

And they are like a countenance dashed with blood:

Faythleen am I, the Witch.’ To her the queen;

‘I bid thee say what see’st thou in my host,

Faythleen, the Witch!’ And Faythleen answered slow,

‘The hue of blood: sunset on sunset charged.’

Then fixed that Wild One on the North her eyes,

And Meave made answer; ‘In those eyes I see

The fates they see; great Uladh’s realm full-armed,

And all that Red Branch Order as one man.’

Faythleen replied; ‘One man alone I see;

128One man, yet mightier than a realm in arms!

That Watch-Hound watching still by Uladh’s gate

Is mightier thrice than Uladh: on his brow

Spring-tide sits throned; yet ruin loads his hand.

If e’er Cuchullain rides in Uladh’s van

Flee to thy hills and isles!’ Meave bit her lip:

But wildly sang the Witch; ‘Faythleen am I,

Thy People’s patron mid the Powers unseen:

Beware that youth invisible for speed,

Who hears that whisper none beside can hear,

Sees what none other sees; before whose eye

The wild beast cowers, subdued! Beware that youth

Slender as maid, whose stature in the fight

Rises gigantic. Gamesome he and mild;

To woman reverent and the hoary hair;

Nor alms he stints nor incense to the Gods;

But when from heaven the anger on him breaks

Pity he knows for none. No pact with him!

Return with speed and march to-morrow morn:

The clan of Cailitin shall yield thee aid,

That magic clan which fights with poisoned darts.

To Uladh I, above her realm to spread

Mantle of darkness, and a mind that errs,

And powerlessness, and shame.’

And powerlessness, and shame.’ Due north she sped,

Far fleeting, wind-upborne! ’twixt hill and cloud,

129To Uladh’s cliffs, and thence with prone descent

Sank to the myriad-murmuring sea wine-dark,

And whispered to the Genii of the deep,

Her sisters:—then from ocean’s breast there rose

A mist, no larger than a dead man’s shroud,

That, slowly widening, spread o’er Uladh’s realm

Mantle of darkness, and an erring mind,

And powerlessness, and shame.

And powerlessness, and shame. The queen returned,

And reached her host what time the sunset glare

With omnipresent splendour girt it round,

Concourse immortalised. Thereon she gazed

High standing in her chariot, spear in hand:

Her too that army saw, and raised the shout.

But Fergus, as she passed him spake: ‘not yet

Know’st thou my Uladh, nor the Red Branch Knights;

And one man is there mightier thrice than they.’

Meantime within Murthemné’s land its lord

Cuchullain, musing like a listening hound,

For many a rumour filled that time the air,

Sat in remote Dûn Dalgan^[27] all alone,

Chief city of his realm. On Uladh’s verge

Southward that lesser realm dependent lay

Girt by a racing river. Silent long

He watched: at last he heard a sound like wind

130In woods remote; and earthward bowed his head;

And said; ‘that sound is distant thirty leagues,

And huge that host;’ then bade prepare his car,

And southward sped, counsel to hold as wont

With Faythleen nigh to Tara.

With Faythleen nigh to Tara. Eve grew dim

When lo! a chariot from the woods emerged

In swift pursuit: an old man urged the steeds,

A grey old man that chattered evermore

With blinking eyes that ceased not from amaze.

That sight displeased Cuchullain: ne’ertheless

He stayed his course; and Saltain soon drew nigh,

Clamouring, ‘O son—and when was son like thee—

Forsake not thou thy father! In old time,

Then when some God had laid on me his hand,

Dectara, my wife, immured me in my house,

Year after year, and weighed the lessening dole:

But thou, to manhood grown, though even to her

Reverent, didst pluck her from that place usurped,

Lifting thy poor old father.’ At that word

Cuchullain left his car, and kissed his sire,

And soothed his wandering wits with meat and wine;

And spake dissembling; ‘lo, these mantles warm!

Prescient, for thee I stored them! Night is near;

Lie down and rest.’ Thus speaking, with both hands

Deftly he spread them wide; and Saltain slept:

131Then, tethering first the horses of his sire,

Lastly his own, upon the chill, wet grass

He likewise lay, and slept not.

He likewise lay, and slept not. On, at dawn

They drave; but Faythleen, witch perverse of will,

That oft through spleenful change her purpose slew,

Had broken tryst; and northward they returned.

That day Cuchullain clomb a rock tree-girt

And kenned beyond the forest’s roof a host

Innumerable, the standards of Queen Meave,

And Fergus, and the great confederate kings.

The warrior eyed them long with bitter smile;

Few words he spake: ‘At fifty thousand men

I count them.’ To his father then he turned:

‘Haste to Emania! Bid the Red Branch Knights

Attend me in Murthemné. I till then

Hang on the invaders’ flank, a fiery scourge.’

Saltain made answer: ‘Be it! northward I:

But Dectara, thy mother, and my wife,

Till thou art by my side I will not see;

For dreadful are her eyes as death or fate;

And many deem her mad.’

And many deem her mad.’ He spake, and drave

Northward; nor ceased from chatterings all day long,

Since, like a Poplar, vocal was the man

Not less than visible. Meantime his son

132Took counsel in his heart, and made resolve

To skirt, in homeward course, that eastern sea,

The woods primeval ’twixt him and the foe,

Still sallying night and day through alley and glade

And taming thus their pride.

And taming thus their pride. Three days went by:

Then stood Cuchullain where great wood-ways met;

And lo! betwixt four yews a warrior’s grave,

The pillar-stone above it! O’er that stone

In mirthful mood he twined an osier wreath,

Cyphering thereon his name in Ogham signs:

For thus he said; ‘On no man unawares

Fall I, but warned.’ The hostile host approached,

And, halting stood in wonder at that wreath;

Yet none could spell the Ogham. Last drew nigh

Fergus, and read it: on him fell that hour

Memories full dear, and loud he sang and long;

He sang a warrior’s praise: yet named him not;

He sang; ‘From name of man to name of beast

A warrior changed: then mightiest grew of men!’

And, as he sang, the cheek of Meave grew red.

Next morn Neara’s sons outsped the rest

Car-borne with brandished spears; and, ere the dew

Was lifted, came to where Cuchullain sat

Beneath an oak, sporting with black-birds twain

That followed him for aye. Toward the youths

133He waved his hand; ‘Away, for ye are young!’

In answer forth they flung their spears: he caught them,

And snapt them on his knee; next, swift as fire,

Sprang on the twain, and slew them with his sword,

One blow:—anon he loosed their horses’ bits,

And they, with madness winged, rejoined the host,

Bearing those headless bulks. Forth looked the queen;

Beheld; and, trembling, cried; ‘It might have been

Orloff, my son!’

Orloff, my son!’ That eve, at banquet ranged

The warriors questioned Fergus; ‘Who is best

Among the Uladh chiefs?’ Ere answer came

King Conor’s son self-exiled, Conlinglas,

Upleaping cried, ‘Cuchullain is his name!

Cuchullain! From his childhood man was he!

On Eman Macha^[28] ever was his thought,

Its walls, its bulwarks, and its Red Branch Knights,

The wonder of the world.’ Then told the prince

How, when his mother mocked his zeal, that child

Fared forth alone, with wooden sword and shield,

And fife, and silver ball; and how he hurled

His little spears before him as he ran,

And caught them ere they fell; and how, arrived,

He spurned great Eman’s gates, and scaled its wall,

And lighted in the pleasaunce of the king,

134His mother’s brother, Conor Conchobar;

And how the noble youths of all that land

There trained in warlike arts, had on him dashed

With insult and with blows: and how the child

This way and that had hurled them, while the king

Who sat that hour with Fergus, playing chess,

Gazed from his turret wondering.

Gazed from his turret wondering. Next he told

How to that child, Setanta first, there fell

Cuchullain’s nobler name. ‘To Eman near

There dwelt an armourer, Cullain was his name,

That earliest rose, and latest with his forge

Reddened the night: mail-clad in might of his

The Red Branch Knights forth rode; the bard, the chief

Claimed him for friend. One day, when Conor’s self

Partook his feast, the armourer held discourse;

“The Gods have made my house a house of fame:

The craftsmen grin and grudge because I prosper:

The forest bandits hunger for my goods,

Yea, and would eat mine anvil if they might—

Trow ye what saves me, Sirs? A Hound is mine,

Each eve I loose him, lion-like, and fell;

The blood of many a rogue is on his mouth:

The bravest, if they hear him bay far off,

Flee like a deer!” Setanta’s shout rang loud

That moment at the gate, and, with it blent,

135The baying of that hound! “The boy is dead,”

King Conor cried in horror. Forth they rushed—

There stood he, bright and calm, his rigid hands

Clasping the dead hound’s throat! They wept for joy:

The armourer wept for grief. “My friend is dead!

My friend that kept my house and me at peace:

My friend that loved his lord!” Setanta heard

Then first that cry forth issuing from the heart

Of him whose labour wins his children’s bread;

That cry he honours yet. Red-cheeked he spake;

“Cullain! unwittingly I did thee wrong!

I make amends. I, child of kings, henceforth

Abide, thy watch-hound, warder of thy house.”

Thenceforth the ‘Hound of Cullain’^[29] was his name,

And Cullain’s house well warded.’

And Cullain’s house well warded.’ Stern of brow

The queen arose: ‘Enough of fables, lords!

Drink to the victory! Ere yon moon is dead

We knock at gates of Eman.’ High she held

The crimson goblet. Instant, felt ere heard,

Vibration strange troubled the moonlit air;

A long-drawn hiss o’er-ran it: then a cry,

Death-cry of warrior wounded to the death.

They rose: they gazed around: upon a rock

Cuchullain stood. The warrior said in heart,

136‘I will not slay her; yet her pride shall die!’

Again that hiss: instant the golden crown

Fell from her head! In anger round she glared:—

Once more that hiss long-drawn, and in her hand

The goblet, shivered, stood! She cast it down;

She cried; ‘Since first I sat, a queen new-crowned,

Never such ignominy, or spleen of scorn

Hath mocked my greatness!’ Fiercely rushed the chiefs

Against the aggressor. Through the high-roofed woods

They saw him distant like a falling star

Kindling the air with speed. Ere long, close by

He stood with sling high holden. At its sound

Ever some great one died!

Ever some great one died! The morrow morn

Cuchullain reached a lawn: tall autumn grass

Whitened within it; but the Beech trees round

Were russet brown, the thorn-brakes berry-flushed:

Passing, he raised his spear, and launched it forth

Earthward: there stood it buried in the soil

Halfway, and quivering. Loud Cuchullain laughed,

And cried, ‘It quivers like the tail of swine

Gladdened by acorn feast!’ then drew he rein

And with one sword-stroke felled a youngling Birch

And bound it to that spear, and on its bark

Silvery and smooth, graved with his lance’s point

In Ogham characters the words, ‘Beware!

137Unless thou know’st what hand this Ogham traced

Twine yonder berries mid thy young bride’s locks,

But spare to tempt that hand!’ An hour passed by

And Meave had reached the spot. Chief following chief

Drew near in turn; yet none could drag from earth

That spear deep-buried. Fergus laughed; ‘Let be

Connacians! Task is here for Uladh’s hand!’

Then, standing in his car, he clutched the spear

And tugged it thrice. The third time ’neath his feet

Down crashed the strong-built chariot to the ground.

He laughed! The queen in anger cried, ‘March on!’

The host advanced, disordered. Foremost drave

Orloff, Meave’s son. That morning he had wed

A maid, the loveliest in his mother’s court,

And yearned to prove his valour in her eyes.

Sudden he came to where Cuchullain stood

Pasturing his steeds with grass and flower forth held

In wooing, dallying hand. Cuchullain said

‘The queen’s son this! I will not harm the youth,’

And waved him to depart. That stripling turned

Yet, turning, hurled his javelin. As it flew

The swift one caught it; poised it; hurled it home:

It pierced that youth from back to breast; he fell

Dead on the chariot’s floor. The steeds rushed on

Wind-swift; and reached the camp. There sat the queen

138Throned in her car, listening the host’s applause:

In swoon she fell, and lay as lie the dead.

Next morn again the invaders marched, nor knew

What foe was he who, mocking, thinned their ranks,

Trampled their pride; who, lacking spear and car,

Viewless by day, by night a fleeting fire,

Dragged down their mightiest, in the death cry shrill

Drowning the revel. Fergus knew the man,

Fergus alone; nor yet divulged his name,

Oft muttering, ‘These be men who fight for Bulls—

I war to shake a Perjurer from his throne,

And count no brave man foe.’ Again at feast

Ailill made question of the Red Branch Knights:

Fergus replied; ‘Cuchullain is their best:

I taught him arms! Hear of his Knighting Day!

‘Northward of Eman lies a pleasaunce green:

The Arch-Druid, Cathbad, gazer on the stars,

While there the youths contended, beckoned one

And whispered, “Happy shall that stripling prove

Knighted this day! Glorious his life, though brief!”

That hour Cuchullain stood beyond the wall

South of the city, yet that whisper heard!

He heard, and cried; “Enough one day of life

If great my deeds, and helpful!” Swift of foot

He sped to Conor. “I demand, great king,

Knighthood this day, and knighthood at thy hand.”

But Conor laughed; “Not fifteen years are thine!

139Withhold thyself yet three.” That self-same hour

Old Cathbad entered, and his Druid clan,

And spake; “King Conor! by my bed last night

Great Macha stood, the worship of our race,

Our strength in realms unseen. ‘Arise,’ she said;

‘To Conor speed: to him report my will:

That youth knighted this day is mine Elect!

I, Macha, send him forth!’

I, Macha, send him forth!’ ‘“She spake and passed:

Trembled the place like cliffs o’er ocean caves:

Like thunder underground I heard her wheels

In echoes slowly dying.”

In echoes slowly dying. ‘Fixed and firm

King Conor stood. Sternly he made reply:

“Queen Macha had her day and ruled: far down

Doubtless this hour she rules, or rules aloft:

I rule in Eman and this Uladh realm:

I will not knight a stripling!” Prophet-like

Up-towered old Cathbad, and his clan black-stoled.

This way and that they rolled prophetic bolts

Three hours; and brake with warnings from the stars

And mandates from the synod of the Gods,

The king’s resolve. At last he cried, “So be it!

Since Gods, like men, grow witless, be it so!

The worse for Eman, and great Macha’s land—

Stand forth, my sister’s son!” He spake and bound

The Geisa, and the edicts, and the vows

140Of that dread Red Branch Order on the boy,

And gave him sword and lance.

And gave him sword and lance. ‘An eye star-keen

That boy upon them fixed, and, each on each,

Smote them. They snapt in twain. Laughing, he cried,

“Good art thou, Uncle mine; but these are base:

I need a warrior’s weapons!” Conor signed;

Then brought his knaves ten swords, and lances ten:

Cuchullain eyed them each and snapt them all,

The concourse marvelling. “Varlets,” cried the king,

“Bring forth my arms of battle!” These in turn

Cuchullain proved: they brake not. Up they dragged

A battle-car. Cuchullain leaped therein:

With feet far set he spurned its brazen floor

That roared and sank in fragments. Chariots twelve

Successive thus he vanquished. “Uncle mine,

Good art thou,” cried the youth; “but these are base!”

King Conor signed, “My car of battle!” Leagh

The charioteer forth brought it with the steeds:

Cuchullain proved that war-car and it stood.

Careless he spake: “So, well! The car will serve!

Abide ye my return.”

Abide ye my return.’ ‘He shook the reins:

He called the horses by their names well-known:

He dashed through Eman’s gateway as a storm:

Far off a darksome wood and darksome tower

Frowned over Mallok’s wave: therein abode

141Three bandit chieftains, foes to man: well pleased

Those bandits eyed the on-rushing car, and youth,

Exulting in their prey: arrived, with gibes

He summoned them to judgment: forth they thronged,

They and their clan: he slew them with his sling,

The three; and severed with his sword their heads,

And fixed them on the chariot’s front. His mood

Changed into mirthful: fleeter than the wind

Six stags went by him, stateliest of the herd;

Afoot he chased them, caught them, bound them fast

Behind the chariot rail. Birds saw he next

White as a foam-wreath of their native sea,

Spotting the glebe new turned. A net lay near:

He caged them; next he tied them to his car

Wide-winged, and wailing loud. To Eman’s towers

Returned he then with laughter: at its gate

The king, the chiefs, grey Druids, maids red-cloaked,

Agape to see him—on his chariot’s front

The grim heads of those bandits; in its rear

Those stags wide-horned; and, high o’erhead the birds!’

The laughter ceasing, spake King Conor’s son;

‘Recount the wonder of those fairy steeds

That drag Cuchullain’s war-car!’ Fergus then,

Despite Queen Meave, who plaited still her robe

With angry hectic hand, the tale began.

‘Cuchullain paced the herbage thin that clothes

Slieve Fuad’s summit. On that airy height

142A wan lake glittered, whitening in the blast,

Pale plains around it. From beneath that lake

Emerged a horse foam-white! Cuchullain saw,

And straightway round that creature’s neck high-held

Locked the lithe arms no struggles could unwind.

That courser baffled clothed his strength with speed:

From cliff to cliff he sped; cleared at a bound

Inlet, and rocky rift; nor stayed his course,

Men say, till he had circled Erin’s Isle.

Panting then lay he, on his conqueror’s knee

Resting his head; thenceforth that conqueror’s friend,

His “Liath Macha.” Gentle-souled is she

“Sangland,” the wild one’s comrade. As the night

Sank on those huge red-berried woods of Yew

Loch Darvra’s girdle, from beneath the wave

She issued, darker still. Softly she paced,

As though with woman’s foot, the grassy marge

In violets diapered, and laid her head

Upon Cuchullain’s shoulder. In his wars

Emulous those mated marvels drag his car:

In peace he yokes them never.’

In peace he yokes them never.’ Fergus rose:

‘Night wanes,’ he said, ‘and tasks await my hand:’

Passing the throne he whispered thus the queen,

‘The Hound of Uladh is your visitant

Both day and night.’ The cheek of Meave grew pale.

143

FRAGMENT II.

THE DEEDS OF CUCHULLAIN.

Argument.

Fergus is sent to Cuchullain with gifts, and requires him to forsake King Conor. This he will not do, yet consents to forbear Meave’s host till she has reached the border of Uladh, the queen engaging that the warfare shall then be restricted to a combat between himself and a single champion sent against him day by day. Each day Meave’s champion is slain. Cailitin, lord of the Magic Clan, counsels Meave to send against Cuchullain his best-loved friend Ferdīa; yet she sends, instead, Lok Mac Favesh. When he too falls, Cailitin and his twenty-seven sons, all magicians, fling themselves upon Cuchullain to slay him. Cuchullain slays them. The Mor Reega, the War-Goddess of the Gael, prophesies to him that there yet awaits him the greatest of his trials. After ninety days of combat Cuchullain’s father brings him tidings that all Uladh lies bound under a spell of imbecility.

Thus ever day by day, and night by night,

Through strength of him that mid the royal host

Passed, and re-passed like thought, the bravest fell;

For ne’er against the inglorious or the small

That warrior raised his hand. Then Ailill spake;

‘Let Fergus seek that champion in the woods,

Gift-laden, and withdraw him from his king:’

144But Fergus answered; ‘Sue and be refused!

That great one loves his country. Heard ye never

How when King Conor’s sin, that forfeit pledge

Plighted with Usnach’s sons, had left the Accursed

Crownless, and Eman’s bulwarks in the dust,

Her elders on Cuchullain worked, what time

He came my work of vengeance to complete?

They said, “Cuchullain loves his land o’er all!

The man besides, though terrible to foes,

Is tender to the weak. Through Eman’s streets

Send ye proclaim, ‘Will any holy Maid

To save the city take her station sole

On yonder bridge, at parting of the ways,

That city’s Emblem-Victim, robed in black

Down from her girdle to the naked feet;

Above that girdle this alone—the chains

Of Eman’s gate, circling that virgin throat

And down at each side streaming? It may be

That dread one will relent, pitying in her

Great Uladh’s self despoiled of robe and crown,

Her raiment bonds and shame.’ Of Eman’s maids

But one, the best and purest gave consent:

Alone she stood at parting of the ways:

While near and nearer yet that war-car drew

Wide-eyed she stood, death-pale: it stopp’d: she spake;

Eman, thy Mother, stands a widow now:

145And many a famished babe that wrought no ill

Lies mid her ruins wailing.” To the left

The warrior turned his steeds. The land was saved.’

Then spake the kings confederate; ‘Hard albeit

That task, to draw Cuchullain from his charge,

Seek him, and proffer terms!’ Fergus next morn

Made way through those sea-skirting woods, and cried

Three times, ‘Setanta;’ and Cuchullain heard

And knew that voice, and, beaming, issued forth,

And clasped his ancient master round the neck,

And led him to his sylvan cell. Therein

Long time they held discourse of ancient days

Heaven-fair through mist of years. The youthful host

Set forth their rural feast, whate’er the woods

And they that in them dwelt, swine-herds, and hinds,

Yielded, their best: nor lacked it minstrel strain,

Bird-song by autumn chilled, that brake through boughs

Lit by unwarming sunshine. Banquet o’er,

Fergus his errand shewed, and named the gifts

By Ailill sent, and Meave. Cuchullain rose

And curtly answered; ‘Never will I break

My vow; nor wrong the land; nor sell my king:’

Fergus too royal was to hear surprised,

Or grieved, his friend’s resolve, nor touched again

Upon that pact unworthy. Happier themes

Succeeded, mirthful some. Of these the last

146Made sport of Ailill. Fergus spake; ‘One night

To Meave’s pavilion swift of foot I sped;

War-tidings wait not. Ailill from afar

Furtively followed, stung by jealous spleen.

The queen had passed into the inner tent;

I sought her there. In the outer Ailill marked

My sword, that morning thither sent, a loan,

For Meave had vowed with braided gems, her boast,

To out-brave its hilt. His wrath was changed to joy!

He snatched it up; he cried; “Hail, forfeit mine!

Hail Eric just!”^[30] and laughed his childish laugh.

Since then he neither frowns on me nor smiles:

He will not let me rule his foolish kings;

Yet, deeming still my sword a charm ’gainst fate

Wears it. An apter one for him I keep:

One day ’twill raise a laugh!’ In graver mood

At parting Fergus spake; ‘For thee unmeet

That pact of Meave, though not for her: but thou

Conceal not, know’st thou meeter terms, and fit?’

To whom Cuchullain; ‘Fergus, terms there be,

Other, and fitter. I divulge them not:

Divine them he that seeks them!’ On the morn

Fergus these things narrated to the chiefs

In synod met. Then rose a recreant churl,

And thus gave counsel; ‘Lure Cuchullain here

On pretext fair; and slay him at the feast!’

147Against that recreant Fergus hurled his spear,

And slew him, and continued, ‘Hundreds six,

Our best, have perished, and our march is slow:

Now, warriors, hear my counsel, and my terms.

Cuchullain scorns your gifts—of such no more!

’Twixt southern Erin and my Uladh’s realm,

Runs Neeth: across that river lies a ford;

Speak to Cuchullain; “By that ford stand thou,

Guarding thy land. Against thee, day by day,

Be ours to send one champion—one alone:—

While lasts that strife forbear the host beside!”’

Then roared the kings a long and loud applause,

Since wise appeared that counsel: faith they pledged,

And sureties in the hearing of the Gods:

Likewise Cuchullain, when his friend returned,

Made answer; ‘Well you guessed! a month or more

My strength will hold: meantime our Uladh arms.’

To seal that pact he sought the hostile camp,

And shared the banquet. Wondering, all men gazed,

And maidens, lifted on the warriors’ shields,

Gladdened, so bright that youthful face. At morn

Meave, when the chief departed, kissed his cheek:

‘Pity,’ she said, ‘that such a one should die!’

The one sole time that Meave compassion felt.

That eve Cuchullain drank the wave of Neeth,

And wading reached Murthemné’s soil, his charge

148And knelt, and kissed it. As the sun declined

He clomb a rocky height, and northward gazed,

And cried; ‘Ye Red Branch warriors, haste! I keep

The ford; but who shall guard it when I die?’

Next morning by that stream the fight began,

Two champions face to face: and, every morn,

Rang out, renewed, that combat; every eve

Again went up from that confederate host

The shout of rage. Daily their bravest died,

Thirty in thirty days. Feerbraoth fell;

And Natherandal, though the Druid horde

Above his javelins, carved at set of moon

From the ever-sacred holly stem, had breathed

Vain consecration, and with futile salve

Anointed them: confuted soon they sailed

In ignominy adown that seaward tide

With him that hurled them. Eterconnel next,

Dalot, and Cuir. Yet he who laid them low

Was beardless at the lip:—While thus they strove

A second month went by.

A second month went by. Such things beholding

The queen was moved; and in her grew one day

Craving for Cruachan. But on her ear

Rolled forth that hour the lowings of that Bull

Cuailgné’s Donn: for he from Daré’s house

Had heard, though far, the clamours of the host,

149And answered rage with rage. Then Meave resolved,

Though all my host should perish to a man

This foot shall tread no more my native plains

Save with that Bull in charge!

Save with that Bull in charge! To her by night

Came Cailitin, who ever walked by night

Shunning mankind, and Fergus most of all,

Cailitin, father of the Magic Clan,

And thus addressed her; ‘Place in me thy trust!

I hate Cuchullain, for he hates my spells

Resting his hope on virtue. In thy camp

Ferdīa bides, a Firbolg feared of all.

Win him to meet Cuchullain. They in youth

Were friends: to slay that friend will lay a hand

Icy as death upon Cuchullain’s heart.

Ferdīa dies—thus much mine art foreshews—

Then I, since magic spells have puissance most

Upon a soul depressed and body sick,

Fall on him with my seven and twenty sons,

Magicians all. One are we: thence with one

May fight, thy pledge unflawed. A drop of blood

Shed by our swords, though small as beetle’s eye,

Costs him his life.’ Fiercely the queen replied,

‘A Firbolg! Never!’ Cailitin resumed,

‘Then send for Lok Mac Favesh!’

‘Then send for Lok Mac Favesh!’ With the morn

150Mac Favesh sought her tent. Direful his mien;

Massive his stride; his body brawny and huge;

For, though of Gaelic race, the stock of Ir,

With him was mingled giant blood of old,

Wild blood of Nemedh’s brood that hurled sea rocks

’Gainst the Fomorian. Oft the advancing tide

Drowned both, in battle knit. Before the queen

Boastful the sea-king laid his club, and spake:

‘Queen, though to combat with a beardless boy

Affronts my name, my lineage, and my strength,

His petulance shall vex thine eye no more!

Uladh is thine to-morrow!’ At the dawn

By hundreds girt, the great ones of his clan,

Down drave he to the ford, and onward strode

Trampling the last year’s branches strewn hard by

That snapp’d beneath him. Hides of oxen seven

Sustained the brazen bosses of his shield;

And forth he stretched a hand that might have grasped

A tiger’s throat and choked him. O’er his helm

Hovered an imaged demon raven-black.

Cuchullain met him; hours endured the strife,

That mountained strength triumphant now, anon

Cuchullain’s might divine. Then first that might

Was fully tasked. Upon the bank that day

Stood up a Portent seen by none save him,

A Shape not human. Terribly it fixed

151On him alone its never-wandering eye;

The dread Mor Reega,^[31] she that from the skies

O’er-rules the battle-fields, and sways at will

This way or that the sable tides of death.

He gazed; and, though incapable of fear,

Awe, such as heroes feel, possessed his heart:

Its beatings shook his brain: his corporal mould

Throbbed as a branch against some river swift;

And backward turned his hair like berried trails

Of thorn athwart the hedge. Three several times

He saw her, yet fought on. With beckoning hand

At last that Portent summoned from the main

A huge sea-snake: round him it twined its knots:

Then on Cuchullain fell the rage from heaven:

A sword-blow, and that vast sea-worm lay dead!

A sword uplifted, and Mac Favesh fell

Prone on the shuddering flood. In death he cried,

‘Lay me with forehead turned to Uladh’s realm;—

They shall not say that fugitive I died.’

Cuchullain wrought his will: then, bleeding fast,

Stood upright, leaning on his spear aslant;

A warrior battle-wearied.

A warrior battle-wearied. From the bank

Meantime, the dark magician, Cailitin,

He and his sons, with wide and greedy eyes,

That still, like one man’s eyes, together moved,

152Had watched that fight, counting each drop that fell

Down from Cuchullain’s wounds. When faint he stood

At once their cry rang out like one man’s cry;

Like one their seven and twenty javelins flew:

As swift, Cuchullain caught them on his shield:

An instant more, and all that horde accursed

Was dealing with him. From the trampled ford

Went up a mist of spray that veiled that strife,

Though pierced by demon cries, and flash beside

Of demon swords. O’er it at last up-towered

On-borne, such power to blend have Spirits impure,

A single Form—as when o’er seas storm-laid

The watery column reels, and draws from heaven

The cloud, and drowns the ship—a single Form,

And Head, and Hand, clutching Cuchullain’s crest:

Not wholly sank he. O’er that mist of spray

Glittered his sword. There fell a silence strange:

Slowly that mist dispersed; and on the sands

That false Enchanter lay with all his sons

Black, bleeding bulks of death.

Black, bleeding bulks of death. Amid them stood

Cuchullain; near him, seen by him alone,

That dread Mor Reega, now benign. She spake:

‘I hated thee, since less in me thy trust

Than in great Virtue’s aid. I hate no more.

153Be strong! a trial waits thee heavier yet—

No man is friend of mine till trial-proved.’

Yet sad at heart that eve Cuchullain clomb

His wonted rock, and faint with loss of blood,

And mused; ‘My strength must lessen day by day;’

And northward gazed, thus murmuring; ‘All too late

To save the land those Red Branch Knights will come

When I am dead—

My war-car, and my war-steeds are far off

And I am here alone.’ Through grief that night

He slept not; for the Magic Clan had power,

Though dead, to lean above him as a cloud

Darkening his spirit. Happy days gone by

They changed to grief and shame.

They changed to grief and shame. While thus he sat

He saw, not distant, on the forest floor,

In moonbeams clad, though moon was near him none,

A pure and princely presence. Lithe his form

In youthful prime: chain armour round him clung

Bright as if woven of diamonds. Glad his eye;

Dulcet his voice as strain from Elfin glen

Far heard o’er waters. Thus that warrior spake:

‘My child, an ancestor of thine I come,

Great Ethland’s son, in virtuous battle slain.

Among the Sidils^[32] now, and fairy haunts

154Moon-lit, and under depths of lucent lakes,

Gladness I have who in my day had woe,

And youth perpetual though I died in age.

Repose thou need’st: for sixty days thine eyes

Have closed reluctant. Sleep a three days’ sleep

Whilst I thy semblance bearing meet thy foes.’

Thus spake the youth, then sang Lethean song,

And, straight, Cuchullain slept. Three days gone by,

Again that vision came. ‘Arise,’ he said:

The warrior rose; and lo! his wounds were healed:

Down to the river sped he.

Down to the river sped he. Waiting there

Stood up Iarion, champion of the queen,

There stood, nor thence returned. Eochar next

Perished, then Tubar, Chylair, Alp, and Ord,

In all full ninety warriors. Ninety days

Had fled successive since that strife began,

When, on the evening of the ninetieth day,

His strength entire, and victory eagle-winged

Fanning his ardent cheek, Cuchullain scaled

Once more that specular rock. Within his heart

Spirit illusive that, with purpose veiled,

Oft tries the loftiest most, this presage sang

‘Southward, not distant, thou shalt see them march

At last, that Red Branch Order, in their van

Thy Conal Carnach!’ Other spectacle

155Met him, a chariot small with horses small,

And, o’er the axle bent, a small old man

Urging them feebly on. It was his sire!

T’wards him Cuchullain rushed: the old man wept,

For gladness wept, and afterwards for woe,

Kissing the wounds unnumbered of his son:

Reverent, Cuchullain led him to his cell;

Reverent, he placed before him wine and meat;

Nor questioned yet. The old man satisfied,

Garrulity returned, though less than once,

Now quelled by patriot passion. Thus he spake:—

‘Setanta! son of mine! I bring ill news:

Uladh is mad; the Red Branch House is mad:

We two are mad; and all the world are mad,

Mad as thy mother! Through the realm I sped:

A mist hung o’er it heavy, and on her sons

Imbecile spirit, and a heartless mind,

And base soul-sickness. Evermore I cried,

“Arise! the stranger’s foot is on your soil:

They come to stall their horses in your halls;

To slay your sons; enslave your spotless maids;

Alone my son withstands them!” Shrewd of eye

Men answered; “Merchant; see thy wares be sound!

No lack-wits we!” Old seers I saw that decked

Time-honoured foreheads with a jester’s crown:

I saw an ollamb trample under foot

156His sacred Oghams: next I saw him grave

His own blear image on the tide-washed sands,

Boasting, “The unnumbered ages here shall stoop

Honouring true Wisdom’s image.” Shepherds set

The wolf to guard their fold. The wittol bade

The losel lead his wife to feast and dance:

Young warriors looked on maids with woman’s eyes.

I drave to Daré’s Dûn: his loud-voiced sons

Adored the Donn Cuailgné as their sire,

And called their sire a calf. To Iliach’s tower

I sped: he answered; “What! the foe! they come!

Climb we yon apple trees, and garner store!

Wayfarers need much victual!” Onward next

To Sencha’s castle:—On the roof he knelt,

Self-styled the kingdom’s chief astrologer,

Waiting the unrisen stars. To Olchar’s Dûn

I journeyed: wrapp’d in rags the strong man lay,

Thin from long fast; with eyelids well nigh closed:

Not less beneath them lay a gleaming streak:

“Awake me not,” he said: “a dormouse I!

Till peace returns I simulate to sleep.”

I sought the brothers Nemeth: one his eyes

Bent on the smoke-wreath from his chimney’s top,

One on the foam-streak wavering down the stream;

While each a finger raised, and said “Tread light!

Our earth is grass o’er glass!” I sought the mart:

157Men babbled; “Bid the Druids find the king!”

I sought the Druids’ College: in a hall

Reed-strewn to smother sound they held debate

On Firbolg and Dedannan contracts pledged

Ere landed first the Gael. The Red Branch House

Was changed to hospital; and knights full-armed

Nodded o’er lepers’ beds. I sought the king:

From hall deserted on to hall I roamed:

I found him in his armoury walled around

With mail of warriors dead. There stood, or lay,

The chiefs by Uladh worshipp’d. Nearest, crouched

Great Conal Carnach patting of his sword

Like nurse that lulls an infant. On his throne

Sat Conchobar in miniver and gold:

His eyes were on his grandsire’s shield that breathed

At times a sigh athwart the steel-lit gloom:

Around his lips an idiot’s smile was curled:

“What will be will be,” spake the king at last:

“All things go well.”’

“All things go well.”’ Thus Saltain told his tale:

One thing he told not—how, a moment’s space,

The passion of an old man’s scorn had wrought

Deliverance strange for that astonished throng,

High miracle of nature. He, the man

Despised since youth, the laughter of the crowd,

Himself restored to youth by change like death,

158Had rolled his voice abroad, a mighty voice;

They heard it: from their trance they burst: they stood

Radiant once more with mind! They stood till died

The noble anger’s latest echo. Then

That mist storm-riven put forth once more its hand,

And downward dragged its prey.

And downward dragged its prey. Upon his feet

Cuchullain sprang, his father’s tale complete:

That rage divine which gave him strength divine

Had fallen on him from heaven. He raised his hands,

And roared against the synod of the Gods

That suffer shames below. Beyond the stream

That host confederate heard and armed in haste,

And slept that night in armour. Far away

Compassion touched the strong hearts of the Gods,

The strongest most—Mor Reega’s. Ere that cry

Had left its last vibration on the air

High up the Battle-Goddess, adamant-mailed,

Was drifting over Uladh. Eman’s towers

Flashed back her helmet’s beam. With lifted spear

She smote the brazen centre of her shield

Three times; and thunder, triple-bolted, rolled

Three times from sea to sea. The spell was snapp’d:

Humanity returned to man! The first

Who woke was Leagh, Cuchullain’s charioteer:

Forth from the opprobrious mist he passed like ship

159That cleaves the limit of some low marsh-fog

And sweeps into main ocean. Forth he rushed—

Forth to Cuchullain’s chariot-house, and dragged

Abroad that war-car feared of man and yoked

White Liath Macha, and his comrade black,

And dashed adown the vacant, echoing streets,

And passed the gateway towers: the warders slept:

Beyond them, propp’d against the city wall,

A cripple crunched his mouldering crust. Still on

He rushed, the reins forth shaking and the scourge,

Clamouring and crying; ‘Haste, Cuchullain’s steeds!

On Liath Macha! Sable Sangland on!

Your master needs you! Aye! ye know it now!

The blood-red nostril smells the fight far off!

On to Murthemné, and Cuailgné’s hills,

And Neeth’s remembered ford!’ Unseen he drave;

So slowly, clinging still to brake and rock,

And oft re-settling, vanished from the land

The insane mist. That hurricane of wheels

Not less was heard by men who nothing saw:

On stony plain, in hamlet, and in vale:—

They muttered as in sleep; ‘Deliverance comes.’

160

FRAGMENT III.

THE COMBAT AT THE FORD.

Argument.

Queen Meave sends her herald to Ferdīa the Firbolg, requiring him to engage with Cuchullain in single combat. Ferdīa refuses to fight against his ancient friend; yet, later he attends a royal banquet given in his honour; and there, being drawn aside through the witcheries of the Princess Finobar, he consents to the fight. The charioteer of Ferdīa sees Cuchullain advancing in his war-car to the Ford, and, rapt by a prophetic spirit, sings his triumph. For two days the ancient friends contend against each other with reluctance and remorse: but on the third day the battle-rage bursts fully forth: and on the fourth, Cuchullain, himself pierced through with wounds innumerable, slays Ferdīa by the Gae-Bulg. He lays his friend upon the bank, at its northern side, and, standing beside him, sings his dirge.

Meantime the queen, ere dawned that ninetieth morn,

Mused, ill at ease; ‘Daily my people die,

And many a stormy brow on me is bent:—

What if they turn on me like starving hounds

That rend their huntsman?’ In her ear once more

Sounded the word of Cailitin; ‘The man

To fight Cuchullain is the man he loves:

161His death were death to both.’ Then came the kings

Confederate, saying; ‘Send Ferdīa forth!

Ferdīa is the mightiest of our host:

Ferdīa is Cuchullain’s chief of friends:

Westward of Alba in the Isle of Skye

Scatha, that rock-browed northern warrioress,

In amplest lore of battles trained them both:

Except the Gae-Bulg, every feat of arms

Is known to each alike.’

Is known to each alike.’ The queen gave way:

She sent her herald to the man she scorned

With offers huge, tract vaster than his own

Not barren like his mountains billow-beat,

But laughing in the lap of Ai’s plains;

A war-car deftly carved and ribbed with brass;

And, for his clansmen, raiment of all dyes,

Twelve suits. A stalwart man, yet fair as strong

The Firbolg towered, dark-eyed, dark-haired, pale-faced,

Unlike the Gael. Melodious was his voice

But deeper than a lion’s. Ceaseless thought

On immemorial wrongs—he brooded still

O’er glories of Moytura, and Tailltenn,

Their great assemblies, and their solemn games,

And kingly graves—had cast upon his brow

Perpetual shade; and ever, on the march,

If high on crags there stood some Gaelic tomb

162Wind-worn a thousand years, he passed it by

With face averse, muttering, ‘New men! New men!

We note not such!’ The herald’s task discharged,

He answered thus, not turning; ‘Tell your queen

That I, a Firbolg, serve, but not for hire,

A cause not mine. Cuchullain is my friend:

Better I died than he!’

Better I died than he!’ O’er-awed though wroth

The queen despatched in statelier embassage

Three warriors, and three ollambs, and three bards:

With reverence they addressed him. ‘Chief and Prince!

True prince, though scion of a house deject,

The queen, who judges all men by their deeds,

This day hath in thine honour made a feast

And sues to it thy presence. Kings alone

Partake that banquet; Ailill first, and she

Of princesses the fairest, Finobar!’

Scornful the Firbolg answered; ‘Finobar!

She whose bright face hath frosted with death’s white

Full four score faces of war-breathing men

Sent to that Ford successive! Let it be!

Tell them I join their feast: tell them beside

Their bribe shall prove base gold!’

Their bribe shall prove base gold!’ In mantle blue

Clasped by a silver torque, and silver belt

Enringed with silver rings innumerable

163That evening from his tent Ferdīa strode

With large attendance. Ailill and the queen

Received him on their threshold. At the board

Princes alone had place. High up, o’er each

Glittered upon the wall his blazoned shield.

King Ailill placed Ferdīa on his right;

Beyond him sat the Princess. In her ear

Her mother whispered as she neared that seat:

She answered with her eyes.

She answered with her eyes. Well stricken harp

Gladdened that festive throng; and many a tale,

The rage of hunger lessening by degrees,

Ailill recounted of the heroic past,

When, youthful yet, he ranged ’mid friends and foes

Such men as breathed no longer. Servitors

Brimmed oft the goblets; and Ferdīa’s brow,

As song to song succeeded, tale to tale,

Remitted its first sternness. Finobar

Unconsciously had dropp’d her jewell’d hand

Not far from his: her large and dusky eyes,

Shyly at first from his withdrawn, at last

Full frankly met them: on her lips the smile

Increased, though waveringly, then waned, not died,

And in it sadness mingled as she spake:

‘But late yon harper told us of a dream—

My earliest of remembered dreams was sad;

164I saw some princess of your earlier stock

Whose lover late had perished, slain in fight

By ours, methought them recent. At her feet—

Why there I scarcely know—I made lament:

“All thou hast lost for thy sake I renounce:

For me, like thee, no bridal rites forever!

Dead on thy marriage garland lies mine own;

For lo! the stain accursed is on our sword:

Thy race came first: this Island should be theirs!”’

Ferdīa listened; and the icy pride

Thawed in his bosom. With a sudden change

The jubilant music into martial soared,

Wild battle-chaunt. Upon the warrior’s hand

Still nigh to hers, there lay a scar. With eye

Reverently dewed the princess gazed thereon:

‘Aye, of your war-deeds I have heard so long,

It seems as though since childhood—Whence that wound?

What battle left it there? What sister bound it?

I would that sister were my sister too,

Partaker of my heart, my hope, my life:

I have no youthful friend!’ She paused:—again

But now with paler cheek, and hurried, spake:

‘Beware my mother! She would send you forth

Her knight to meet Cuchullain! Shun that man!

Cuchullain spares not: four score warriors dead

Avouch it. Chief of Gaels is he! Ah me!

165The last great battle ’twixt the old race and new

Would find the same sad ending as the first.’

The Firbolg frowned: she faltered, ‘Am I false,

False to my race’—and tears were in her voice—

‘False to my race, who cannot wish such ending?’

She paused; again she questioned of his wars:

He told her of his sire’s. Like one who thinks

Not speaks, she murmured low; ‘A soothsayer

Thus warned my mother—I was then a child—

“Bring not that maid to war-fields! She shall die

Grieving for some dead warrior.”’

Grieving for some dead warrior.”’ Changed once more

The martial songs to amorous and of mirth,

And once again the torches’ golden flame

Laughed on the cup new-brimmed. Again she spake,

That lovesome one, ‘I love not songs of love!

Better the war-song! Best, methinks, of all

That lullaby half war and sorrow half

Breathed by some bride while o’er her wounded lord

Softly descends the sleep:—so softly sank

Cold dews of evening on this flower still wet.’

She took it from her breast, and held it near:

He smelt it; kissed it; kept it. With a smile

She added; ‘For your sister? Have you one?

If so, ’tis likely she resembles me:

They chide me oft; “No Gaelic face is thine,

166Dark-eyed, dark-browed, a rebel since its birth!”’

She ceased; again she spake: ‘Even now, methinks,

That lullaby I spake of I can hear!

Is it for thee, my friend, or Cuchullain?’

That hand, of flower amerced, drew nearer yet

To his. That smile had passed. Tearful she turned

On him those luminaries of love and death,

Her eyes, like stars in midnight waters glassed;

Turned them, but spake no longer. Through his brain

Shivered their shrouded lustre; through his blood:

The sanguine currents from the warrior’s heart

Long sad, to female sympathies unused,

Drank up at once that splendour, and the tears

That splendour’s strange eclipse.

That splendour’s strange eclipse. And yet, that hour,

Seen in some lonelier region of his soul

Another presence, O how different, stood!

Again, that hour, he saw those guileless eyes,

Blue as the seas they gazed on; saw once more

That hair like winter sunshine, brow snow-white,

That unvoluptuous form and virginal,

That love-unwakened breast with love for all,

Those hands that knew not what their touch conferred,

Those blithesome, wave-washed, scarce divided feet:—

The huge cliff smiled upon her; seemed to say,

‘Ah little nursling mine! Ah tender child

167Of winds and rocks untender!’

Of winds and rocks untender!’ Had he loved?

Sadness is celibate and eremite:

His converse long had been with injuries past,

In Scatha’s isle with frowning crags and clouds—

Aye, but with one beside, a friend, his nearest,

Who loved that maid, and sued her grace. Ferdīa

Had never spoken love; nor thought, ‘I love:’

And yet, that hour, was false.

And yet, that hour, was false. A hundred harps

Rang out together, and the feast was o’er:

Murmured the rose-red lips; but what they said

He heard not. Mournfully at last withdrew

Those eyes, like eyes fated thenceforth to bear

One image on till death. She joined her mother.

The queen, as he departed, took his hand:

Alone they stood: she spake: ‘That noble scorn

Which spurned a bribe, approves a Firbolg’s worth:

’Twas Ailill sent that herald. ’Twas not I.

I know you now, and proffer royal terms

Confirmed by guarantee of all our kings:

Accept this combat; and the princess wed!

Ferdīa! I have made that offer thrice

To three dead warriors with the king’s consent,

Never till now with hers!’

Never till now with hers!’ He pledged his word:

168The battle day was fixed; the morrow morn:

She took that glittering torque whose splendours clasped

Her mantle red; with it his mantle bound:

Then with attendance to his tent he passed.

Meantime, that night within his forest lair

In dreams Cuchullain lay, and saw in dreams,

Not recent fights, but ocean and that isle

Where with Ferdīa he had dwelt in youth,

With Scatha—and another. And in dream

He mused; ‘The dearest of my friends survives:

These wars will pass; Ferdīa then and I

Thenceforth are one for aye!’ That self-same hour

Sadly from troubled sleep the Firbolg woke,

Murmuring, as one in trance, ‘Against my friend!

Against my only friend!’ With gloomy brows

His clansmen watched him arming. One sole man

They feared; that man Cuchullain. Morn the while

Was dawning, though nor glowing cheek she raised

Nor ardent eyes, with silver wand not gold

Striking the unkindling portals of the East;

And, ere the sun had risen, Ferdīa bathed

Three times his forehead in the frosty stream;

And bade attend his charioteer; and drave

Begirt by stateliest equipage of war

Down to the river’s brim. In regal pomp

The host confederate followed, keen to watch

169With Meave, and Ailill, and with Finobar,

All passions of a fight unmatched till then;

While clustered here and there, on rock or mound,

Minstrel and food-purveyor groom and leech

With healing herbs, and charms.

With healing herbs, and charms. The sun arose

And smote the forest roof dew-saturate

As onward dashed through woodlands to the Ford

Cuchullain’s war-car. Nearer soon it rolled

Crushing the rocks. Above those wondrous steeds

That Great One glittered through the mist of morn,

Splendour gloom-veiled. Ferdīa’s charioteer

Half heard, half saw him. Spirit-rapt, yet awed,

Perforce thus sang he standing near the marge.

‘I hear the on-rushing of the car! I see

There throned that warrior not of mortal mould

Swathed in the morning. Dreadful are his wheels;

Dreadful as breaker arched, when on its crest

Stands Fear, and Fate upon the rock-strewn shore:

But not sea-rocks they crush, those brazen wheels,

But realms, and peoples, and the necks of men.

‘I see the war-car! Terrible it comes,

Four-peaked; and o’er those peaks a shadowy pall

Pavilioning dim crypt and caves of death:

I see it by the gleam of spears high held,

The glare of circling Spirits. Lo! the same

170I saw far northward drifting, months gone by,

Ere yet that madness quelled the northern land.’

Then cried Ferdīa, stationed where huge trees

Shut out unwelcome vision: ‘For a bribe

Thou seest these portents, singing of my death!’

Once more, in agony prophetic, he—

‘The man within that car is Uladh’s Hound!

What hound? No stag-hound of the storm-swept hills:

No watch-hound watching by a merchant’s store:

The hound he is that tracks the steps of doom;

The hound of realms o’er-run, and hosts that fly;

The hound that laps the blood!’

The hound that laps the blood!’ Again he sang;

‘The Hound of Uladh is a hound with wings;

A hound man-headed! Yea, and o’er that head

Victory and empire, like two eagles paired

Sail onward, tempest-pinioned. Endless morn

Before him fleeting over seas and lands,

With shaft retorted lights his chariot-beam.

That chariot stays not, turns not: on it comes,

Like torrent shooting from a tall cliff’s brow,

Level long time; then downward borne!’

Level long time; then downward borne!’ ‘A bribe!’

Once more Ferdīa cried; ‘A bribe! a lie!

Traitor! for Ailill’s gold and gold of Meave,

Thou sing’st thy master’s death-song!’

171Thou sing’st thy master’s death-song!’ By the stream

Cuchullain stood: not yet he knew his foe;

That foe who slowly to the Ford advanced

Full panoplied, and in his hand a spear.

Long gazed they each on each. Cuchullain spake:

‘Welcome howe’er thou com’st, Ferdīa! Once

In Scatha’s isle far otherwise thou camest

Morn after morn with tidings fresh of war

Plaything and pastime of our brother swords.

This day thou com’st invader of my land

Murthemné, bulwark broad of Uladh’s realm;

Thou com’st to burn my cities, spoil my flocks—

A change there is, Ferdīa!’ Stern of brow

The Firbolg answered; ‘Friends we were; not peers:

The younger thou. ’Twas thine to yoke my steeds;

Arm me for fight. A stripling hopes this day

With brandished spear to make a mountain flee!

Son of the Gael! long centuries since, thy race

Trampled my race:—their vengeance hour is near;

I bid thee to depart!’ To him his friend;

‘Ferdīa, in the old days on Scatha’s Isle

Thou wert my tribe, my household-stock, my race!

Questioned I then on battle-plain, or when

On frosty nights we couched beneath one rug,

Ancestral claims, traditions of the clan?

A change there is, Ferdīa!’

172A change there is, Ferdīa!’ Thus with words

Or mild, or stern in hope to save not slay,

Those friends contended. Sternest was the man

Whose conscience most aggrieved him.

Whose conscience most aggrieved him. ‘To this Ford

Thou cam’st the first, old comrade! choice of arms

Is therefore thine by right.’ Cuchullain spake:

Ferdīa chose the javelin. Arrow-swift,

While still the charioteers brought back the shaft,

The missiles flew. Keen-eyed as ocean bird

That, high in sunshine poised, glimpses his prey

Beneath the wave, and downward swooping slays him,

Each watched the other’s movements, if an arm

Lifted too high, or buckler dropp’d too low

Left bare a rivet. Long that fight endured:

Three times exhausted sank their hands: three times

They sat on rocks for respite, each the other

Eyeing askance, not silent; ‘Lo the man

Who shields an ox-like or a swine-like race

That strikes no blow itself!’ or thus; ‘Ah pledge

Of amity eterne in old time sworn!

Ferdīa, vow thy vow henceforth to maids!

The man-race nothing heeds thee!’

The man-race nothing heeds thee!’ Evening fell

And stayed perforce that combat. Slowly drew

The warriors near; and as they noted, each,

173The other bleeding, in its strength returned

The friendship unextinct: round either’s neck

That other wound his arms and kissed him thrice:

That night their coursers in the self-same field

Grazed, side by side: that night their charioteers

With rushes gathered from the self-same stream

Made smooth their masters’ beds, then sat themselves

By the same fire. Of every healing herb

That lulled his wounds Cuchullain sent the half

To staunch Ferdīa’s; while to him in turn

Ferdīa sent whate’er of meats or drinks

Held strengthening power or cordial, to allay

Distempered nerve or nimble spirit infuse,

In equal portions shared.

In equal portions shared. The second morn

They met at sunrise:—‘Thine the choice of arms;’

The Firbolg spake; the Gael made answer; ‘Spears!’

Then leaped the champions on their battle-cars

And launched them into battle. Dire their shock

In fiery orbits wheeling now; anon

Wheel locked in wheel. Profounder wounds by far

That day than on the first the warriors gored,

Since closer was the fight. With laughing lip

Not less that eve Cuchullain sang the stave

That chides in war ‘Fomorian obstinacy:’

Again at eve drew near they, slower now

174For pain, and interwove fraternal arms:

Again their coursers in the self-same field

Grazed side by side, and from the self-same stream

Again their charioteers the rushes culled:

Again they shared alike both meats and drinks,

Again those herbs allaying, o’er their wounds

With incantations laid.

With incantations laid. Forlorn and sad

Peered the third morning o’er the vaporous woods,

The wan grey river with its floating weed,

And bubble unillumined. From the marge

Cuchullain sadly marked the advancing foe:—

‘Alas, my brother! beamless is thine eye;

The radiance lives no longer on thy hair;

And slow thy step.’ The doomed one answered calm,

‘Cuchullain, slow of foot, but strong of hand

Fate drags his victim to the spot decreed:

The choice to-day is mine: I choose the sword.’

So spake the Firbolg; and they closed in fight:

And straightway from his heart to arm and hand

Rushed up the strength of all that buried race

By him so loved! Once more it swelled his breast:

In majesty re-clothed each massive limb,

And flashed in darksome light of hair and eye

Resplendent as of old. Surpassing deeds

They wrought, while circled meteor-like their swords,

175Or fell like heaven’s own bolt on shield or helm.

Long hours they strove till morning’s purer gleams

Vanished in noon. Sharper that day their speech;

For, in the intenser present, years gone by

Hung but like pallid, thin, horizon clouds

O’er memory’s loneliest limit. Evening sank

Upon the dripping groves and shuddering flood

With rainy wailings. Not as heretofore

Their parting. Haughtily their mail they tossed

Each to his followers. In the self-same field

That night their coursers grazed not; neither sat

Their charioteers beside the self-same fire:

Nor sent they, each to other, healing herbs.

Ere morn the Firbolg drank the strength of dreams

Picturing his race’s wrong; and trumpet blasts

Went o’er him blown from fields of ancient wars:

And thus he mused, half-wakened; ‘Not for Meave;

Not for the popular suffrage; not for her

That maid who fain had held me from the snare,

Fight I that fight whose end shall crown this day:

O race beloved, this day your vengeance dawns

Red in the East! The mightiest of the Gaels

Goes down before me! What if both should die?

So best! Thus too the Firbolg is avenged!’

Thus mused he. Stately from his couch he rose,

And armed himself, sedate. Upon his breast

176He laid, in iron sheathed, a huge, flat stone,

For thus he said, ‘Though many a feat of arms

Is mine, from Scatha learned, or else self-taught,

The Gae-Bulg is Cuchullain’s!’ On his head

He fixed his helm, and on his arm his shield

Sable as night, with fifty bosses bound,

All brass; the midmost like a noontide sun.

Cuchullain eyed him as he neared the Ford,

And spake to Leagh; ‘This day, if slack of hand

Thou notest me, or wearied, hurl, as wont,

Sharp storm of arrowy railing from thy lips

That so the battle-anger from on high

May flame on me.’ The choice of arms was his:

He chose ‘the Ford-Feat.’ On the Firbolg’s brow

A shadow fell:—‘All weapons there,’ he mused,

‘Have place alike: if on him falls the rage

He will not spare the Gae-Bulg!’

He will not spare the Gae-Bulg!’ Well they knew,

Both warriors, that the fortunes of that day

Must end the conflict; that for one, or both,

The sun that hour ascending shone his last:

Therefore all strength of onset till that hour

By either loosed or hoarded, craft of fight

Reined in one moment but to spring the next

Forward in might more terrible, compared

With that last battle was a trivial thing;

177Whilst every weapon, javelin, spear, or sword,

Lawful alike that day, scattered abroad

Huge flakes of dinted mail; from every wound

Bounded the life-blood of a heart athirst

For victory or for death. The vernal day

Panted with summer ardours, while aloft

Noontide, a fire-tressed Fury, waved her torch,

Kindling the lit grove and its youngling green

From the azure-blazing zenith. As the heat

So waxed the warriors’ frenzy. Hours went by:

That day they sought not rest on rock or mound,

Held no discourse. Slowly the sun declined;

And as wayfarers oft when twilight falls

Advance with strength renewed, so they, refreshed,

Surpassed their deeds at morning. With a bound

Cuchullain, from the bank high springing, lit

Full on the broad boss of Ferdīa’s shield,

His dagger-point down turned. With spasm of arm

Instant the Firbolg from its sable rim

Cast him astonished. Upward from the Ford

Again Cuchullain reached that shield: again

With spasm of knee Ferdīa flung him far,

While Leagh in scorn reviled him: ‘As the flood

Shoots on the tempest’s blast its puny foam;

The oak-tree casts its dead leaf on the wave;

The mill-wheel showers its spray; the shameless woman

178Hurls on the mere that babe which was her shame,

So hurls he forth that fairy-child bewitched

Whom men misdeemed for warrior!’

Whom men misdeemed for warrior!’ Then from heaven

Came down upon Cuchullain, like the night,

The madness-rage. The Foes confronted met:

Shivered their spears from point to haft: their swords

Flashed lightnings round them. Fate-compelled, their feet

Drew near, then reached that stream which backward fled

Leaving its channel dry. While raged that fight

Cuchullain’s stature rose, huge bulk, immense,

Ascending still: as high Ferdīa towered

Like Fomor old, or Nemed from the sea,

Those shields, their covering late from foot to helm,

Shrinking, so seemed it, till above them beamed

Shoulders and heads. So close that fight, their crests

That waved defiance, mingled in mid air;

While all along the circles of their shields,

And all adown their swords, viewless for speed

Ran, mad with rage, the demons of dark moors

And war-sprites of the valleys, Bocanachs

And Banacahs, whose scream, so keen its edge,

Might shear the centuried forest as the scythe

Shears meadow grass. To these in dread response

Thundered far off from sea-caves billow-beat

179And halls rock-vaulted ’neath the eternal hills,

That race Tuatha, giant once, long since

To pigmy changed, that forge from molten ores

For aye their clanging weapons, shield or spear,

On stony anvils, waiting still their day

Of vengeance on the Gael. That tumult scared

The horses of the host of Meave that brake

From war-car or the tethering rope, and spread

Ruin around. Camp-followers first, then chiefs

Innumerable were dragged along, or lay

’Neath broken axle, dead. The end was nigh:

Cuchullain’s shield splintered upon his arm

Served him no more; and through his fenceless side

Ferdīa drave the sword. Then first the Gael

Hurled forth this taunt; ‘The Firbolg, bribed by Meave,

Has sold his ancient friend!’ Ferdīa spake,

‘No Firbolg he, the man in Scatha’s Isle,

That won a maid, then left her!’ Backward stepp’d

Cuchullain paces three: he reached the bank;

He uttered low; ‘The Gae-Bulg!’ Instant, Leagh

Within his hand had lodged it. Bending low,

Low as that stream, the war-game’s crowning feat,

He launched it on Ferdīa’s breast. The shield,

The iron plate beneath, the stone within it,

Like shallow ice-films ’neath a courser’s hoof

Burst. All was o’er. To earth the warrior sank:

180Dying, he spake: ‘Not thine this deed, O friend—

’Twas Meave who winged that bolt into my heart!’

Then ran Cuchullain to that great one dead,

And raised him in his arms, and laid him down

Beside the Ford, but on its northern bank,

Not in that realm by Ailill swayed and Meave:

Long time he looked the dead man in the face;

Then by him fell in swoon. ‘Cuchullain, rise!

The men of Erin be upon thee! Rise!’

Thus Leagh. He answered, waking; ‘Let them come!

To me what profit if I live or die?

The man I loved is dead!’

The man I loved is dead!’ But by the dead

Cuchullain stood; and thus he made lament:

‘Ferdīa! On their head the curse descend

Who sent thee to thy death! We meet no more;

Never while sun, and moon, and earth endure.

‘Ferdīa! Far away in Scatha’s isle

A great troth bound us and a vow eterne

Never to raise war-weapons, each on each:—

’Twas Finobar that snared thee! She shall die.

‘Ferdīa! dearer to my heart wert thou

Than all beside if all were joined in one:

Dear was thy clouded face, and darksome eye;

Thy deep, sad voice; thy words so wise and few;

Dear was thy silence: dear thy slow, grave ways,

Not boastful like the Gael’s.’

181Not boastful like the Gael’s.’ Silent he stood

While Leagh in reverence from the dead man’s breast

Loosened his mail. There shone the torque of Meave:^[33]

There where the queen had fixed it yet it lay.

Cuchullain clutched it. ‘Ha! that torque I spurned!

Dark gem ill-lifted from the seas of Death!

Swart planet bickering from the heavens of Fate!

With what a baleful beam thou look’st on me!

’Twas thou, ’twas thou, not I, that slew’st this man’—

He dashed it on the rock, and with his heel

Smote it to fragments.

Smote it to fragments. Then, as one from trance

Waking, once more he spake: ‘Oh me—oh me,

That I should see that face so great and pale!

To-day face-whitening death is on that face;

And in my hand my sword:—’tis crimson yet.

That day when he and I triumphed in fight

By Formait’s lake o’er Scatha’s pirate foes

The woman fetched a beaker forth of wine,

And made us drink it both; and made us vow

Friendship eterne. O friend, my hand this day

Tendered a bloody beaker to thy lip.’

Again he sang; ‘Queen Meave to Uladh’s bound

Came down; and dark the deed that grew thereof;

Came down with all the hosting of her kings;

And dark the deed that grew thereof. We two

Abode with Scatha in her northern isle,

182Her pupils twinned. The sea-girt warrioress

That honoured few men honoured us alike:

We ate together of the self-same dish:

We couched together ’neath the self-same shield:

Now living man I stand, and he lies dead!’

He raised again his head: once more he sang:

‘Each battle was a game, a jest, a sport

Till came, fore-doomed, Ferdīa to the Ford.

I loved the warrior though I pierced his heart.

Each battle was a game, a jest, a sport

Till stood, self-doomed, Ferdīa by the Ford.

Huge lion of the forestry of war;

Fair, central pillar of the House of Fame;

But yesterday he towered above the world:

This day he lies along the earth, a shade.’

183

FRAGMENT IV.

THE INVASION OF ULADH.

Argument.

Cuchullain lies long in the forest nigh to death from his wounds, and yet more through grief for Ferdīa. The queen crosses the Ford into Uladh, and captures the Donn Cuailgné. The confederate kings fall out among themselves; Meave summons a war council; whereupon there bursts forth a second contention between them and the Exile-Band. She makes the circuit of all Uladh; yet enacts nothing memorable. Lastly she marches against Eman, its metropolis, but slowly, being encumbered by her spoil. Uladh rouses itself daily out of its trance of imbecility. The death of Ketherne. Finobar is fain to draw Rochad to the cause of her mother, but fails. Her fate. The queen, falling into despondency, re-crosses the frontier.

Silence amid the wide, confederate camp:

No clang of sword or shield; no warrior’s tread

Striding to Meave with battle-gage down flung

For him who kept the Ford. But when six days

Were past, and none had seen that threatening helm,

There went abroad a rumour, ‘he is dead:’

Then sped to her six champions claiming fight:

Whom from her presence spurning, Meave advanced

184With all her host o’er Uladh’s frontier line

By Daré’s castle and the ill-omened gate

Whereon high-seated Daré’s Fool had hurled

Against her scorn and gibe. As Meave drew near

Forth rolled the bellowing of Cuailgné’s Donn,

Cause of that war. King Daré’s sons had fled;

But in the gate-way stood their old, grey sire,

Alone, and slew the first that entrance made:

The rest dashed in upon him, and he died.

Six days, and in Cuchullain’s cell no change—

The bud grew large; the earlier violet died;

He neither spake nor moved. His wounds were deep:

Deeper his grief; and stronger thence their power

Though dead, that clan accursed of Cailitin,

With ghostly spells darkening the warrior’s heart:

As lie the dead, he lay.

As lie the dead, he lay. One eve, what time

The setting sun levell’d through holly brakes

Unnumbered dagger-points of jewel’d light

And ’neath the oak-stem burned a golden spot,

Leagh, standing near his couch, reproached him thus;

‘In time of old the greatness of thy spirit

Had ever strength to salve thy corporal griefs:

But now through coward heart thou makest no fight,

Dying as old men die.’ Cuchullain heard;

But answered nought.

185But answered nought. Next day, while near them buzzed

At noon the gilded insect swarm, he spake;

‘While lived Ferdīa wounds to thee were jest;

Thy grief it is that drags thee to the pit;

Grief; and for what? Of treasons worse is none

Than sorrow when thy country’s foe is dead!

Not man is he, the man who dies of grief.’

He spake: Cuchullain fixed a vacant eye

On that sad, wrathful face.

On that sad, wrathful face. Then hastened Leagh

To where those giant coursers, side by side,

Stood tethered mid green grass and meadow-sweet

Within a lawn; and led them to a stream,

And bade them drink; and later led them home;

And placed their corn before them, and they ate:

Next spake he; ‘Horses ye; and yet ye know

To eat at need, while men self-sentenced starve!’

Thus of that man whom most he loved on earth

He made complaint. Liath, the lake’s white son,

Tossed high his head in anger. By his side

Sangland, his dusky comrade, sadly ate,

Moistening with tears her barley.

Moistening with tears her barley. Late that eve

Cuchullain beckoned Leagh; ‘To Conor speed:

Speak thus; “Put on thine arms and save thy land

Since now the Hound that kept thy gate is dead:—

186Make no delay!”’ At midnight Leagh went forth

Though loth to leave his master to the care

Of cowherd rude, or swineherd. Tenderer aid

Ere long consoled him. Beauteous as the dawn

Next morn two shepherd boys seeking a lamb

Came on the sick man in his forest nook;

Long time they gazed on him compassionate;

With voice benign and tendance angel-like

Onward into his confidence they crept;

His lips with milk, the purest, they refreshed;

They placed the dewy wood flowers in his hand;

They sang him ballads old, not battle-songs,

Too loud such songs they deemed, but Fairy lore,

Or tale of lovers fleeing tyrant’s rage:

Among the last unwittingly they sang

‘Cuchullain’s Wooing;’ how the youth had found

Eimer, the loveliest lady of the land

Within her bowery pleasaunce, girt with maids

Harping, or broidering fair in scarf deep-dyed

Blossom or insect: how he sued; and how

She answered; ‘Woo my sister: woo not me!’

How, glorying in her loveliness, her sire

Had sworn no chief should ever call her wife

Who won her not by valour; how that youth

Had scaled his rock and slain his guards and forth

Led her by hand, a downward-looking bride,

187Majestic, unconsenting, undismayed,

But likewise unreluctant. As they sang

Above that suffering face there passed a smile;

And where that smile had lain there crept a tear;

And in few minutes more asleep he sank

Who had not slept nine days.

Who had not slept nine days. Swiftly meanwhile

On marched the host confederate: bootless speed;

Since ever one day’s progress by the next

Was cancelled; tortuous mind made tortuous course

Now bent awry to capture spoil, anon

To avenge some private wrong. Fergus the while

Inly with fury raged; for still his thought

Was ‘Eman—Vengeance.’ Meave, to calm his wrath,

Albeit debate she scorned, a council called

And made demand, ‘To Eman speed we, Kings,

With central wound striking at Uladh’s heart,

Or wind, as now, at random through the realm,

With havoc huge, and plunder?’

With havoc huge, and plunder?’ Rose a chief

Aulnau, the son of Magach, one whose pride

Was not in war-deeds but in crafty brain,

And thus made answer. ‘March to Eman! Queen!

Not difficult the emprise; but whose the gain?

Eman to burn, what were it but to sow

The sanguine seed of endless wars to come?

188The Uladh chiefs live scattered. Eman’s fall

Touches not them. Their strength ere long revived

Southward in search of vengeance they will rush:

Slay them yet weakling! Slay them ere they wake!

Slay them in mountain hold and forest lair

In vale and glen: slay each apart, half-armed;

Easy the task!’ Arose the Exiled King:

‘“Easy the task!”’ he cried; ‘that Daré learned!

Unarmed—alone—I saw the old man fall!

“Easy the task!”’ Then brake upon him Alp

That ruled in far Iorras, speaking thus;

‘Fergus, we love our queen; but love not thee!

Hostile to ours thy race: King Conor’s fall

Thou seek’st; not Uladh’s. Hear me, Queen of Men!

The siege of Eman means a three months’ siege:

Be wary lest, ere yet that time is past

King Conor with his exiles makes a pact,

And they who now but rate thee drink thy blood:

Be wary likewise lest in half that time

Thy host melt from thee like a wreath of snow!

The Gael is restless; lives on chance and change;

The clan grows home-sick: victory in its grasp,

Pines for the babe unkissed, or field unreaped:

My counsel then is Aulnau’s. Like a flood

Wind devious through the land and strip it bare:

Till then let Eman be.’

189Till then let Eman be.’ Debate ere long,

For chiefs there were who loved the nobler war,

Passed on to raging storm. Old friendships died;

And from the dust of ages injuries old

Leaped up like warriors armed. In Fergus wrath

Gave way to scorn: with haughty port he spake,

A man majestical yet mirthful too.

‘Great Lords and Kings—since Kings ye claim to be—

King-vassals, world-renowned for mutual hate,

Alone of men I censure not your strifes,

Knowing their cause. The very air you breathe,

The founts whereof you drink, the soil you tread,

Are all impregnate with a sacred rage;

And false alike to usage, country, blood,

Were he among you who, for three hours’ space,

Discerned ’twixt friend and foeman. Lords and Kings,

Attend a legend from your annals old,

A laughing picture of man’s life this day.

In Erin’s earlier age there reigned two kings:

Each had a swineherd who, through magic power,

Assumed what form he would of shapes that live

In heaven, or earth, or sea. Friendship eterne

They pledged; then strove ten years, with hosts allied

So huge that none remained to till the land.

At last the vanquished westward creaked, a crane:

A crane, the victor chased him. Twenty years

190High up they fought; to each side Erin’s birds

Flocking in clans, the factions of the heavens.

Those twenty years run out, the vanquished crane

Dropp’d on a stream and straight to salmon changed;

Instant his foe, to salmon turned not less,

From stream to sea pursued him. Far and wide

All scaly shapes that buffet Erin’s waves

From sprat and minnow up to shark and whale

Beat up in finny squadrons. Forty years

With deepening rage they fought, till round the isle

Main ocean boiled, and from her ships black-ribbed

Melted the tar, and mist was over all.

Next changed those salmons twain to dragon-flies:

But while they sat in hate on neighbouring pools

A dun cow and a red cow drank them up

Unwittingly. From them two bull-calves sprang

That, grown, with battle thunders dinned the realm

For eighty years! How say ye, Lords? From these

Come not the Bulls that shake this day our land,

Fionbannah, and the Donn? For them we fight,

And in their honour hold, on peaceful days,

Like them our roaring synods!’

Like them our roaring synods!’ Fiercely and long

The unwise council strove; and Meave, who feared

Far more the petulance of her lesser kings

Than that great exile’s loftier wrath, resumed

191Next morn her march erratic. On she passed,

The Dal Araidhé forests on her right,

Northward to Moira’s plain and Clannaboy;

And through the Glynns of Ardes glimpsed remote

Alba’s blue hills. Dalríad fastnesses

She burned with fire, and seized full many a herd

On banks of Bann; then westward turned, and kenned

The grass-green glitter soon of far Lough Foyle,

And where the winding river-sea divides

Fanad from Inishowen’s cliffs forlorn.

Aileach she passed, more late the seat of kings;

And, southward next, that lake^[34] whose lonely isle

Descends, through caves, to Spirit-worlds unknown.

Thus Meave a circle traced round Uladh’s realm,

And heard the murmur of its three great seas,

Yet nothing wrought of perdurable fame.

Conor, meantime, round Eman ranged his hosts

There flocking night and day. ‘I march not hence’

He said, ‘till Uladh’s wound is wholly healed;—

Fergus I deem the sage of battle-fields,

Though fool in all beside.’

Though fool in all beside.’ But sloth and fear

In manly hearts at worst rare visitants,

Leave them betimes, like vermin caught by chance

That quit ere long the clean. O’er Uladh’s breadth

Daily some chief, or fragment of a clan

192Long chilled by rumour of Cuchullain slain,

Despite King Conor’s hest assailed the queen

Marching, though late, on Eman. First of these

Was Ketherne. Hewing oaks on Fuad’s crest

He marked her host, and rushed, a naked man

From waist to head, his axe within his hand,

In fury on it. Late that eve his kernes

Forth from the battle tore him bleeding fast

From fifty wounds. That night physicians five

Were bending o’er his bed: the eldest spake;

‘Ketherne, thou son of Fintan, thou must die!’

Then Ketherne raised himself and with one blow

Smote him upon his forehead that he died.

In turn the second,—‘Ketherne, thou must die:’

And Ketherne slew him. Feebler-toned the third

Whispered, ‘The man must die;’ and died himself;

Likewise the fourth. Old Ithal was the fifth,

A son of Alba. He with stealthy foot

Stepping o’er corpses of his brethren slain,

Made keen-eyed inquest of the wounds; then spake:

‘Of these the least is dangerous: fatal none:

Two cures for such there be, diverse in kind;

Ketherne, thou son of Fintan, make thy choice!

The first is slow but certain: where thou liest

Full three months thou must lie; then rise restored:

The second is immediate: strength divine

193It pours like light into a warrior’s veins;

Then dies its virtue, and the warrior dies!’

Ketherne laughed loud: ‘My choice is quickly made—

Three months bed-ridden, or one vengeance day

Joyous and glorious! Leech! I rather choose

With mine own hand to avenge eretime my death

Than trust that task to others!’ At his word

Ithal prepared a wonder-working bath

Strewn with strange herbs, and bathed therein the man,

Then bade him drink of some elixir bright

Drawn from the sun. As one refreshed by sleep

He rose: he clomb his war-car; sought the foe;

Threescore he slew, their best. At last the strength

Ceased from his arm; and opened once again

His wounds late closed; and back he sank, and died.

Such hindrances, and every day had such,

Likewise huge herds and cumber of her spoil

Slackened the march of Meave. Full many a chief

Perished in bootless fight; full many an eye

Turned on her, malcontent. But trial worse

Had found her through her daughter, Finobar.

Without an hour’s misgiving or remorse

In beauty’s pride not less than patriot zeal—

Wilier she was than Meave, and haughtier far—

Champion on champion she had sent to doom

Beside that fatal Ford. Ferdīa most

194Had tasked the sorceress, for in him alone

Vanity kept no place. She watched the fight

No pallor on her fruit-like cheek, no cloud

Dimming her star-like eyes. Without a sigh

She saw the Firbolg, last of all his race,

Fall on the soil once theirs. Even then she knew not

The inevitable shaft had pierced whate’er

Of woman heart was hers. The strong man’s death

Lifted that veil his victory ne’er had raised:

Standing mid others she beheld him dead:

Thenceforth that deep-toned voice, that mournful front,

Those stern yet stately ways, so great and plain,

Haunted her memory. Oft with sudden spasm

She strove to shake that viper from her breast

Which sucked its life-blood. ‘I, the Princess, love!

And love a Firbolg!’ She had never loved:

Self-love, sole regent of the unloving heart,

Had barred it ’gainst all other tenderer loves:

In vain the island chiefs had wooed and sued:

She spurned them each and all.

She spurned them each and all. Of these the last

Was Rochad, and the proudest, in the North

A vassal prince of Conor’s, oft his foe:

The passion she had kindled she had scorned:

Rochad had vowed revenge.

195Rochad had vowed revenge. In wonder Meave

Noted the weary lids, the vanishing bloom,

The abrupt accost, though haught yet unassured;

The movements to mechanic changed, the mind

Still strong, yet widowed of its flexile strength;

These things she saw; their cause she ne’er divined:

Love for the living Meave could understand:

For her the dead was dead. To Finobar

The one thing yet remaining was her pride:

Questioned, her answer ever was the same,

‘Onward, to Eman!’

‘Onward, to Eman!’ Nearer it each day

They drew. One evening through the sunset mist

A camp, high-seated on a bosky hill,

Shone out, fire-fringed: aloof it stood as one

That halts ’twixt war and peace. Ere long they learned

Rochad that site had chos’n, with Uladh’s King

Friendly but half, thence slow to prop his cause.

Then spake the queen; ‘The hand of yonder chief

Sustains our battle’s balance. If his host,

Now dubious, joins the bands that vex our flank

No choice remains but this, a homeward course

Or, if a march to Eman, then the loss

Of half our hard-earned spoil and hate thenceforth

Of all our vassal kings.’ Forth flashed the eyes

196Of Finobar—it was their latest flash—

She answered thus; ‘The sequel leave to me!

He loved me, Rochad, once: ere sets yon moon

I bring you tamed the lion of yon hills,

Aye, in a silken leash!’

Aye, in a silken leash!’ Rochad far off

Beheld her coming; marked it with a smile;

Welcomed her gaily; led her to the feast;

Thence to his tent wherein was none beside.

There put she forth whatever subtlest art

In seeming-simple innocence disguised

Imagines of persuasive, whatsoe’er

Delicatest craft of female witcheries

Potent for man’s destruction can devise,

To bend that warrior’s will. The winter beam

Thaws not the polar ice: o’er Rochad’s soul

So passed the syren’s pleadings. Pleased not less

To stand implored, he dallied with her suit

Destined, and this he knew, to end in shame.

She, self-deceived, inly made vow; ‘This tent

I leave not, save victorious.’

I leave not, save victorious.’ Hours went by:

She noted not their flight. Once more with skill

Plastic as wind in woods, a measured strength